Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse (this is where Clement Clarke Moore ends and I begin)

No stockings were hung by the chimney with care

Not a chance that Santa would ever come there

Two little brothers

grimy and tattered as could be

Stared trustingly in my eyes

whilst clinging to me

Huddled under a filthy worn sheet

that smelt of mold and bile

Our mother purple and swollen

in a motionless pile

Then…

the dull thumping sound

grunts and wails filled the air

I drew the little ones closer

we had to get out of there

So we ran through the night

across dismal grey slums

Over soulless dingy earth

from which nothing ever comes

Towards nothingness we ran

stopping only when I knew

That we had found nowhere

where no one knew

Then pressed tightly together

we dropped into a heap

I thought about forever

as we three fell asleep.

Title photo by Pixabay